In the Heat of the Battle
by Beloved Bastet
Summary: "Killing came naturally to me, like riding a bike or breathing even! But sometimes... sometimes I wondered when would it end?" Human Jasper one-shot based in the Civil War.


**NOTE:** My first REAL fic! This fan fic was written from Jasper's POV, by a major Jasper fan. It's not something that I do often, but I'm trying to work on improving my skills on first-person stories. Also... **I do not own Jasper Whitlock** ( *tear* ) **nor any of the Twilight characters.** That is all. ^_^

**In the Heat of the Battle**

_A Human Jasper Fan Fic_

The gunshots and canon fire were deafening and yet not so loud that I couldn't hear the screams of agony all around me. It was all almost surreal to me, standing there in the heat of battle with the barrel of a loaded rifle aimed at my chest. The man who held it looked as frightened as I felt, which was his first mistake. I was obviously younger than him, but certainly not weaker. Everything happened in a flash of blue and gray. My own rifle was already spent so my only option was to use it to knock his off aim just before he fired. The bullet whizzed past my head, grazing my ear and blowing my curly blonde hair out of its way. With a battle cry, we were on top of one another, hands groping and legs kicking. He was on top of me before I knew it and a knife was at my throat.

"Give it up, rebel!" he hissed, pushing hand against my locked arms; the blade was centimeters from my flesh. I could almost feel the cool steel slicing through my skin…

"Never…!" I choked out against the burning ache in my arms. We'd been marching for days on end and I was near my breaking point… I wouldn't—no couldn't let him win.

"You're going to die, Major Whitlock…" His voice teased my senses yet through the exhaustion, I smirked cockily. He thought he could kill the great Confederate major Jasper Whitlock! It was enough to make me conjure up the last bit of strength that I had to turn the tables on the naïve Yankee. In an instant, I went limp beneath him and felt the blade press against the skin just beneath my chin. I could see he was momentarily shocked and that's when I took my chance; reaching back, I found the grip of my pistol and tugged it out it its holster at my side.

"Ha!" the man barked, pressing the knife harder into my throat. I could feel the skin beginning to split under the pressure, blood welling up around the metal. "Pathetic!" I could tell that he was going to start spitting the usual insults at me but the barrel of my gun into his stomach sufficiently shut him up. A moment of understanding passed between us. We didn't really hate each other-- we didn't even know one another! But I was fighting for my country, as was he. A country divided and in times of war that's all that mattered in a life or death situation; loyalty to one's country.

I broke first.

The crack of the gunshot rang loud and clear in my ears, over all the surrounding noise. The man cried out in agony and very quickly his body began to go limp on top of me. As quickly as I could, I grabbed his arm, flipped us over, and had him pinned to the ground beneath me. Chest heaving, I slowly staggered to my feet with my pistol still pointed at his chest but as I watched him writhe in pain, his breathing slowing by the second, I knew a second shot wouldn't be needed. He took his last shuddering breath with his eyes locked upon mine, pleading. I had his life blood on my hands… all over me, mixing with my own as it trickled down my neck and mingled with sweat. I felt disgusting, invigorated, alive, and like a monster…

With his death came the reality of the war, rushing back to me and sucking the breath from my lungs like cold water. Jerking my head up, I instinctively raised my pistol and fired another shot at a charging Yank who crumpled to the ground a few feet away. Shoving my pistol back into its hostler, I stumbled over the dead and dying to his and retrieved the soldier's rifle. I checked—it was loaded. My eyes, gray as the Confederate coat that I wore proudly, were unfocused and the rest of the battle went by in a blur; routine maneuvers. Killing came naturally to me, like riding a bike or breathing even! But sometimes… Sometimes I couldn't help but wonder when would it end?

I was only vaguely aware of the Yankees' command for retreat but when the victory cries and the notes of Dixie sounded, I shook my head to clear it. We'd won. The Northerners were in full retreat and out of the corner of my eye I spied a few of my men making to chase after them. "NO!" I shouted, holding out a hand to stop them. They froze in mid-step. "No…" Repeated. My men stared in wonder and curiosity at me. "Let them go." I tossed the gun I held to the ground—I'd lifted it from some Yank I'd killed—then stood up straight and held my head high to address my troops. "Collect our dead, leave theirs. There has been enough killing today… Private Roberts!" A spindly boy not much younger than I was with a mop of brown hair shot to my side.

"Yes, sir?"

"Take three others with you… I want you to scout ahead for the best place to camp for the night," then I raised my voice for all to hear. "It's time that we rested!" As the men rejoiced, I allowed myself a small sigh of relief. Lord, that was true…

"Yes sir!" And he was off faithfully, stumbling over a root here and there. I couldn't help but smile softly. Granted, he was clumsy but he was as loyal as the next man, if not more. When he disappeared with three others, I felt exhaustion finally take over. I had to reach out for the nearest tree to steady my self; my head was swimming.

"Major Whitlock, are you hurt?" The voice belonged to our 'medic' and one of the negroes that traveled with our party. To everyone else, none of them had names but I had taken the time to learn them—or at least tried to. It was hard to see past the cloud of racism that I'd grown up with and known my whole life. Mr. Douglass is what I called this one and as I slowly lifted my head to look at him I felt a twinge of confusion. They weren't human, were they? That's what everyone said but… as I looked into those deep brown eyes I saw there what I'd only ever seen in human eyes. Concern. Mr. Douglass was the only one of the niggers that followed my regiment that liked me. Maybe he was just doing his job, but I thought that he did at least. "Major?" he repeated when I hadn't answered.

"Oh… I… Naw, Mr. Douglass. I'm fine," I said finally, allowing myself to lean my shoulder against the trunk of the tree. My legs felt weak and my eyelids didn't want to come back up after I blinked. I knew that I was too young to have such responsibility, the responsibility of the lives of so many men but I was proud. I wouldn't sleep until every man was taken care of. "Go look at someone else. I'm sure there are others you could be worryin' about,"

"No, messah!" Mr. Douglass spoke up but the light quickly faded from his eyes for speaking out so rashly against me, the Major. A couple soldiers passing by stiffened and their hands went to their guns but I held out a hand to stop them. I could feel their eyes on me as they slowly went on their way. Mr. Douglass gave me an appreciative look before he cast his dark eyes shamefully to the ground. "I mean, yah don't look alright, Major… Well, yah got blood all over yah! A' leas' lemme look at yah—j-just to be sure…" I had to hand it to him… For a nigger, he was brave. I gave him a tight lipped smile and nodded.

"Alright, have it your way," I mumbled and allowed him to help me sit on the ground at the base of the tree. The groan the escaped my throat was involuntary but thankfully, Mr. Douglass said nothing and set about his work in silence. He first dipped his dirty washcloth into the pail of water that he had and started to clean the blood off my face and neck. It was there where he saw the knife wound. When he pulled away a little faster than usual, my pale gray eyes rolled in their sockets to eyes him out of the corner of my eyes.

"Ah, yah see… I told yah, I says… I says to yah, 'Lemme look at yah! Yer hurt, massah!' but yah says to me, 'No, Missah Douglass. I'm fine!'. Ain't nobody never lis'sen to ole Missah Douglass…" The elderly man's rant was spoken in a soft, chiding manner, almost fatherly. With a shake of his head, he went back to work. As he cleaned the wound carefully to get a better look at it, I couldn't help but stare in wonder. He was black, black was night—one of the darkest niggers I'd ever seen but his hair! Oh, his hair was as white as the white in the middle of December. There were wrinkles criss-crossing his face that deepened when he laughed or cried or looked concerned. He had a broad nose and mouth and a chin so pointed that the devil himself would've stopped to admire it. Yes, he _looked_ human… but was he? Mama said that his kind weren't. They were dogs, good for nothing but doing the jobs that we didn't want to do. We had four slaves of our own—

"Got clipped mighteh good on yah ear, too, didn't yah Major?" His deep voice drew me out of my mind and back to the present. Blinking, I jerked away from his gentle hands to stare at him; he looked expectant and slightly… amused? For a moment, I floundered.

"Er… Yeah," I said finally, settling back once more and almost instantaneously, the black man's hands were back to work. I barely felt him moving my hair, so unruly and wild, or touching my wounds. Too gentle to be anything but human. "Yeah, some Yank nearly blew my head off," I explained in a quiet voice.

"But yah showed that yellahbelly who's boss, didn't yah?" Mr. Douglass laughed his deep, booming laugh and shook his head cheerfully before he patted my on the shoulder; a dismissal. "Yer lucky, Major Whitlock. Neither of 'em's gonna kill yah—not deep 'nough! But yah gotta keep 'em clean so as they not get infected!" I nodded slightly and started to stand up when he placed a large, calloused hand on my shoulder. "Now, yah gotta promise me tha' you'll keep 'em clean er a' leas' come ter me if they's startin' tah feelin' funny, alright?" I gave him another tight lipped smile and gave him a subtle salute.

"Soldier's oath, Mr. Douglass. Now, go treat my men, you lazy nigger, before I give you something to treat—on yourself!" He helped me to my feet—I was so stiff and sore but I wouldn't admit to it—then gave me a curt bow and a short salute before he left me for the nearest man who looked to be in pain. Yes, for a nigger he was brave. I frowned slightly, watching him as a sudden emptiness came over me. Maybe even braver than I.

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Okay, I can add more, if I get enough reviews that are asking for future chapters. Until then, this is a one-shot that a friend of mine wanted me to write. PLEASE REVIEW!


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